He certainly had a bite at last. His reel hummed
and the fish started for the coast of Spain; or, at
least, in that general direction.

He had to play the fish well to save his line, for
the latter was neither a very heavy one, nor new.
The bass ran stubbornly out to sea.

“That’s a whale, Torry,” Whistler
declared, breaking off in a military tune to make
the observation. “You should have harpooned
it.”

“I’m going to get him aboard here if I
swamp the boat!” declared Torry with vigor.

The boys were so interested in his playing the fish
for the next ten minutes that they did not cast a
glance shoreward. Finally the bass was tired
out, and Torry drew him in close to the boat.
Whistler leaned over the side and, with a maul, tapped
the bass on the head.

But when he got his hand in the gills of the fish
they clamped down upon his fingers, and, in the struggle,
he was almost hauled out of the boat.

“Hey! Help!” he bawled. “What
are you fellows? Just passengers?”

Frenchy gave him a hand on one side and Ikey on the
other; between them the trio hauled a ten-pound bass
over the gunwale. Torry was dancing around in
glee and shouting at the top of his voice.

“Or you’ll dance through the rotten old
bottom boards of the boat and we’ll have to
walk ashore,” added Frenchy.

But it was a great catch, and the others could feel
nothing but envy of Torry’s success. He
had set a pace that none of them could equal; for
after that there did not seem to be another bass of
even two pounds’ weight in the whole ocean.

“Hey, fellows!” ejaculated Ikey suddenly.
“Who’s this coming?”

“Somebody walking on the water, is it?”
chuckled Frenchy.

“Aw, you needn’t be correcting my English,”
responded Ikey. “There are no medals on
you for being a purist.”